Dark Foundations

by Chris Walley

  As Merral hesitated, the words came to him. “Ambassador Tinternli, I am a forester, not a theologian. But I know forests do not grow overnight. Oaks take centuries. The test of whether a forester has created a living forest will be generations away. And if it is so for trees, why might it not be even more so for worlds and cultures? God’s time is surely the right time, however long it is.”

  “As ever, fine words. But, Commander, you are right—there are differences between us. But—and we will not say it openly to your people—the biggest is this: we do not have your confidence. We see no sign of a divinely ordained finish to history. It is open-ended.” Her voice was stronger now. “The future is ours to seize and ours to make of it what we choose. That is what once made us the Freeborn and what makes us the Dominion now.”

  Troubled by her words, Merral fell silent and bent down to pick up a small stone as if by some action he could hide his consternation. As he did, Ringell’s identity disk swung forward so that it slipped out of his shirt.

  “That disk,” Tinternli said, a sharp, almost hissing edge to her voice. “It is odd.”

  Merral quickly slipped it back out of sight. “It’s an heirloom.” He knew that he sounded defensive.

  “It looks like . . . an ancient military identity disk.”

  “Well, it’s something like that. We don’t use them today. Do you?”

  “But your last war was a very long time ago . . . against our people.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s a bit thoughtless of me wearing it, isn’t it? But it was given me by an old man who is now dead. So, I wear it.”

  “And whose name is on it? May I see?” Tinternli asked. In her brown eyes Merral saw a seething brew of fear and anger.

  She knows. She may not be able to read my thoughts, but she has guessed whose name is on the disk.

  He shook his head as he rose. “It has already caused enough embarrassment. I would prefer to forget it. Anyway, I think it’s time to return.”

  Without a word, she followed him back to the center.

  On the Triumph of Sarata, a hundred thousand kilometers away from Farholme in the upper levels of the Nether-Realms, Lezaroth was irritated. He had just ordered one of his engineers and a member of the ground attack team to the cells for twenty-four hours for brawling. Now the bridge was suspiciously empty, as always happened whenever he imposed discipline.

  Lezaroth slumped in his seat. They keep their distance from me, particularly since I became the devoted servant of the lord-emperor.

  He tried to analyze his anger. It wasn’t just about the brawl. No, like all the crew, he had been on board the ship too long and spent too much time in the Nether-Realms. We’re all irritated. I’ve never been on a ship so full of bickering. He also realized that he had probably made things worse by putting the ship on such a high a state of alert in order to emerge into Standard-Space and launch an attack within twenty minutes. The men were on reduced sleep, recreation was banned, and their only respite—if it could be called that—was visits from the gloomy, tattooed priest urging more devotion to the lord-emperor and demanding ever more sacrifices.

  But Lezaroth knew there was another reason why he was irritated. I’m frustrated with the diplomacy. I’m a fighter born and trained and I command one of the best fighting vessels ever made. Yet all I can do is watch and listen to this interminable diplomatic talk.

  With a frustration that bordered on fury, he flicked on the monitor screen to see the latest transmissions from the diplomatic base at Langerstrand. A tolerable signal came through the satellite cable tethered above the ship in Standard-Space and once or twice a day he would get coded messages about progress. But so far today there had been no new messages. Clearly there was nothing of relevance to say. More talk. How much longer must I endure it?

  Yet as he raised the question, he knew the answer: not long. All the evidence suggested that the diplomatic venture was not going to work. The lord-emperor had been too optimistic. Over the last few days Lezaroth had spent time in the intensive study of the culture that was now wide-open before him. He felt it extremely unlikely that, even with the beguiling methods used by the ambassadors—and he found them very impressive—Farholme would agree to the treaty. The lord-emperor or his advisors had confused naïveté with stupidity and simplicity with ignorance. The way that the Library and Admin-Net had been sealed showed that these people were now wary. So diplomacy would fail. And when it did, the military option would begin.

  Lezaroth clenched his fists in anticipation and considered the coming attack. The preparations were almost ready. The Krallen had been checked and were in the deployment mode. The baziliarch was now in place at Langerstrand and the tower that it needed to emerge from dormancy was about to be built so that within days it would be ready for deployment. And his crew itched for action.

  Lezaroth stared at the imagery from the world so near him. It ought to be so very easy. They had run all the simulations and the results were always the same: the Farholme defenses collapsed within days.

  Just then, the camera focused on a man in a green military uniform. He had a lean, tanned face. Lezaroth recognized Merral D’Avanos immediately. His Allenix unit had provided him with considerable data on the man and his background.

  It ought to be so very easy. . . . And yet . . . As Lezaroth stared at the man on the screen he felt strangely troubled. Probing his feelings, he discovered something akin to the presentiments of threat he had had before meeting the lord-emperor on Khalamaja. The sense of danger was much less, but it was still there.

  You are a peril, D’Avanos.

  Suddenly hidden fears seemed to rise up. This world looked so simple to seize. But was it? What lurked beneath it? He felt himself tense. We have our steersmen and our baziliarchs. But what might they have? D’Avanos is a man who has been very lucky and very brave. But supposing he’s more? Is he the great adversary? And, if he is, what might that mean in conflict?

  With this surge of fear came an inevitable anger. Whether you are the great adversary or not, I will be happy to slay you, D’Avanos. And whether I do it personally and slowly by a knife thrust or remotely by vaporizing you to atoms in a kinetic weapon blast makes no difference.

  The camera moved on and Lezaroth felt less troubled. I must neither neglect D’Avanos nor be preoccupied with him.

  He sat back, considering the way ahead. In war, he believed, you should always plan at least two steps ahead of events. The next two events now seemed to be reasonably clear. First, the diplomacy would fail; second, there would be a short, sharp confrontation. The strategy for that was clear: a series of progressively graded attacks to make the Farholme administration yield unconditionally. Barring the unexpected—and here his thoughts flitted uncomfortably back to Merral D’Avanos—utter victory seemed certain.

  So what then? Well, he would seize the Library and take prisoners. He would then try and find the Rahllman’s Star. It now seemed certain that the Farholmers had only destroyed the slave unit of Rahllman’s Star. In fact, the tone of the media reports he had seen suggested that they had no inkling the master unit existed. So it was presumably still floating around in the Nether-Realms nearby bearing the all-important body of the Great Prince Zhalatoc. Lezaroth presumed that the Library would hold astronomical data relevant to the arrival of the Rahllman’s Star and once he had that he would be able to narrow down the likely location. He had the equipment for a Nether-Realms trawl in a hold and with the likely location there was a high probability that he would find the Rahllman’s Star within days.

  At any rate, whether I find it or not, it is absolutely critical to ensure that I, and I alone, obtain the rewards of this mission. The ambassadors would be discredited by events, but that still left Hanax. And Hanax clearly had his own agenda. Lezaroth had keenly monitored the under-captain’s access to the Triumph’s computer. Hanax had been planning the Krallen attacks and creating strategies for an assault on Farholme—that caused no concern. What did was the way that he had acces
sed every fact available on the Rahllman’s Star and Commander Merral D’Avanos.

  Lezaroth now felt certain that Hanax was operating on secret instructions from the lord-emperor. For the lord-emperor to give secret instructions to two separate officers was typical of the way things worked in the Dominion. But it was not a happy situation. Lezaroth had no wish to be disposed of as Admiral Kalartha-Har had been.

  He was considering how to deal with the threat from Hanax when the screen flashed: a personal coded message for him from Tinternli. Lezaroth checked to make sure he was alone on the bridge and then decrypted it.

  The ambassador was alone and her face was grave. “Margrave, you may be interested to know that D’Avanos wears an old military identity disk around his neck. I have downloaded the imagery from my optic feed and had it enhanced. I thought you might be interested in whose name it bears.”

  A gray circle filled the screen. It was slightly fuzzy, but the words were plain. Lucas Hannun Ringell, Space Frigate Clearstar, Assembly Assault Fleet. Date of Birth: 3-3-2082.

  “I think this man needs dealing with.”

  Lezaroth smiled. “I will make it a matter of the highest priority, madam,” he said in the lowest of whispers. “You can be sure of that.”

  Merral found little in the first Dominion broadcast to Farholme to alarm him, but the second, a day later, was very different. Prefaced by a warning and shown an hour later at night, it included chilling imagery of the war with the True Freeborn: swooping slitherwings, bloody-mouthed packs of Krallen, and other nameless terrors. Behind it was an unstated threat: Without our help, this can happen here.

  On the day after the second broadcast Corradon and the other representatives reported record numbers of messages, each saying the same thing: please make a deal; please keep us safe.

  Merral sensed that the resolve of Farholme that had survived both the loss of the Gate and the news of the intruders had now suddenly faltered.

  That day Merral was summoned to a meeting with Vero in a quiet part of an Isterrane park.

  “Why are we here?” Merral asked as they sat on a bench.

  A dozen meters away, Lloyd sat on the grass apparently reading something on his diary.

  “Because I don’t want to be overheard. I don’t trust anywhere with walls.” Behind the dark glasses, Merral felt Vero’s eyes were sweeping nervously this way and that. “First question: have you felt your mind being probed?”

  “No. I have no sense of anything reading my mind. On the contrary, Tinternli and Hazderzal are sometimes surprised by what we say. I don’t believe they can read minds.”

  “We don’t think it’s them. It’s this baziliarch.”

  “Of which we’ve seen no sign. Do you know any more about it?”

  Vero’s tone and fidgeting fingers showed he was ill at ease. “Only that baziliarchs are some sort of demonic being. They are the most powerful of these creatures that can be put in a body and used by men. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so.”

  “There is a hierarchy: the baziliarchs come above steersmen. There are seven of them.”

  “And what is above them?”

  “Azeras says that ‘beyond the seven comes the one. And that one is not God.’”

  There was a long, troubled silence finally broken by Vero. “We think the baziliarch may only just have been put in place at the base. They may not want to use it yet. You can’t use it and still pretend you are the good guys.”

  How does he know this? Who is we? But a question from Vero about the meetings with the ambassadors prevented him from inquiring further. Merral gave a brief account of what had happened in the last few meetings.

  “It was as I had heard,” was Vero’s response. “So how will the voting on the treaty go?”

  “It’s hard to say. Yesterday’s broadcast may have changed things. We shouldn’t have allowed it.”

  Vero shrugged. “You are being outmaneuvered. It is hardly surprising. What is your guess about the vote?”

  “I think that Corradon and some, or all, of the other representatives will probably vote in favor. There is a lot of pressure from the public. My father called me the other day. He was full of what wonderful engineers they were. He was very positive about a treaty.”

  Vero sighed. “Yes, the Dominion is doing well among the general population who haven’t met them. Distance lends enchantment. Your mother?”

  “She has become pragmatic. ‘If they can fix this mess,’ she says, ‘they can have my support.’”

  “I’ve heard that from others.”

  “But I will vote against the treaty. Jenat also, I think. Clemant, though, is a puzzle.”

  “Our advisor plays his cards close to his chest. So it’s going to be tight—very tight.” Vero stared thoughtfully into the far distance, his brow tightly furrowed. “It is vital—legally and morally—that the contact team vote against this treaty.”

  “If we agree to it, what would happen?”

  “They will take the Library. And our independence would soon be lost. My guess would be that the FDF would be put under their control within days. You would, no doubt, be reassigned to Forestry—if you were fortunate.”

  “And if we reject them?”

  “Then we will see a shift of tactics to threats or something much worse.”

  “Why does Nezhuala want a treaty? Why hasn’t he sent his armies in already?”

  “There’s something very deep going on here. It’s to do with rights and legality. If Farholme were seized forcibly by Nezhuala, he would be acting illegally and we would not really be part of the Dominion. But if we agreed to a treaty, we would belong to him. And it’s not just politics. It seems that such a legal framework appears to extend into the spiritual realm.”

  “I see. There’s something of that in the New Covenant writings—about being slaves to sin and needing to be set free.”

  “It’s the same principle. And, of course, with a treaty, Nezhuala would get the Library intact.”

  “Is the Library that valuable?”

  “Yes. He needs that information. In that encoded data are all our strengths and weaknesses. With that he can risk what Azeras calls the ‘fatal blow.’”

  “Meaning?”

  “The fast punch to the heart of the Assembly: Ancient Earth. If he were to seize Earth, then the whole Assembly would crumble.”

  “I can hardly take the concept in.”

  “It’s a useful reminder that we’re playing for very high stakes.” Vero sighed. “Anyway that’s where things are.”

  As Vero started to rise, Merral said quickly, “Vero, there’s one other thing. Tinternli knows about the identity disk. I think she suspects whose name is on it.”

  “Ah.” There was no disguising the look of alarm on Vero’s face. “Th-that is something I was afraid of. I’ll bet she is thinking in terms of this great adversary superstition. You’d better watch yourself.”

  “But we don’t believe it, do we?”

  Vero smiled. “That you are the great defender of the Assembly? A new Lucas Ringell returned at this most dark time?” His smile broadened. “Oddly enough, I’m not sure I disbelieve it. What did Brenito say to me about you? ‘I’m glad you found yourself a warrior.’”

  “Vero, I am a reluctant warrior at best. I am not some mythic figure. It’s so ridiculous as to be almost funny!”

  “Very well. But if on the field of battle that rumor strikes fear into our enemies, then it may serve some good.” Vero bounded to his feet. “But I really must go. Keep safe, my friend. The hour comes.” He paused. “Two extra things: Don’t use the underground passageways at night until I tell you to. And when you pray tonight, pray especially for me and my team. We are hoping for a late night.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Ah. It’s a secret, Commander.” Vero walked away.

  “Still no news?” Vero asked.

  The five people studying screens and listening to signals in the basement command center gave f
ive negative answers.

  Still nothing! The trap is ready, but they aren’t walking into it.

  Vero twisted his fingers in frustration. Just after dark there had been signs of unusual activity at the Langerstrand base. It was now just past midnight and other than a report of odd noises at Tezekal Ridge, there had been no confirmation that a Krallen pack was on its way. Yet there was still an air of expectancy in the warm stuffy room, and the sporadic chatter was terse and nervous.

  Vero tried to distract his own tense thoughts by looking around. His attention was caught by Azeras, who sat with his back to the wall, staring impassively at a wallscreen. The sarudar was immobile apart from his hands, which seemed to continuously slide up and down his thighs.

  Although Azeras had put on weight since they found him on Ilakuma, there was still something gaunt, even haggard about him. That appearance was not just biological, but was linked to a disturbed psychology. Among those who knew who he was, Azeras had made no friends nor, it seemed, wanted any. He stayed formal and aloof, was always Azeras or Sarudar, and seemed to prefer to dwell alone with his troubles.

  Suddenly, someone shouted, “Mr. V.! We have them on screen!”

  Vero swung around to see the screen the man was pointing at. Blurred gray forms pounded over rough rocks, weaving and swaying but somehow managing to stay synchronized. “I-I’m having trouble counting.”

  “It’s a full pack. A column of six—two abreast.”

  “W-where?”

  “Just five kilometers west of the Walderand Bridge. They’re fast.”

  “H-how fast?”

  “Twenty kilometers an hour minimum,” said a voice to his right.

  Vero turned to Azeras. “As you expected?”